When Stars Fall
by highland laurel
Summary: Next story after "Stars Above Us". Contains references to historical figures but this is a work of fiction. Explores Mingo's experiences after leaving Chota in the company of his father, Lord Dunsmore.
1. Chapter 1

When Stars Fall

_No one sees what is before his feet; we all gaze at the stars._

_Cicero_

Chapter 1

The library fire was warmly gleaming on the paneled walls. John Murray sat alone, the snifter of brandy in his trembling hand. In his mind he could still hear the rasping voice of his father, admonishing him. The quiet ticking of the clock belied the turbulence in his heart as he thought about his duty.

To whom did his first duty lie? To himself? To his father? To his king? His Cherokee wife? His son? For a man who had spent his entire life avoiding entanglements the web seemed to be tightening around him. Decisions were soon to be made, unavoidable and irrevocable decisions. He downed the remainder of the brandy in the glass, reached for the decanter beside him and refilled the snifter. A familiar, pleasant numbness settled over him like a warm woolen blanket. Soon nothing would matter to the English major, nothing at all.

Nothing except the dark eyes of Talota, far away over the sea in Virginia. He had denied her every day for nearly three years. Denied the hold that she had on his heart. Denied the child that they created together. The Cherokee marriage ceremony held no validity for him.

But in the slow dark hours after midnight, when the alcohol seeped from his brain through his pores, she rose and walked before him. Her laughter echoed in the empty chamber, her warm body lay beside him under the down. In those lonely hours he dreamed of living with her in the distant lodge nestled in the Kentucky wilderness. She beckoned him with her silent smile.

Every dawn he arose and dressed in his fine English clothes, ate his heavy English breakfast, performed as his upper-class English position demanded. All day he listened to his father's harsh voice enumerating the duties of an English lord. In the hours after the evening meal, as the servants rustled invisibly through the big house, the elder Murray waxed forgetful and lapsed into a childhood brogue. It was then that John Murray reached for the possibilities.

William Murray, the third Earl of Dunsmore, came to England as a child. His father enlarged the English portion of their holdings and decided that the English court and English nobles were better likely to advance him still farther. To that end Lord David Murray invested heavily in English land. He also married a widow whose estate increased his wealth mightily. Her connections to the English throne gave David Murray more power and wealth.

His first son William inherited the bulk of the estate to add to the already large holdings he received from his own wife, another branch attached to the tree of Hanover. Combined with the family holdings in Scotland it was a large fortune.

But as William's age advanced and his health failed he grew nostalgic for the rivers and woods of central Scotland. Sitting in the firelit library with his father John dreamed of other rivers and woods: those of Kentucky. The two men sat and dreamed but had no interaction, no closeness. The Murrays did not demonstrate affection. It was plebian. Unbridled emotions could destroy you.

John had been groomed to succeed William his whole life. His sister was already married to strengthen the ties to King George the Second. His younger brother was a timid and shrinking boy who would not advance the family's position. John stood of age to secure his own connections and further advance his own position. The kingdom was canvassed to provide a worthy wife.

A succession of women paraded before him, always with the intention of making a match that would benefit the families of both. Though not aware of the reason, John always refused the potential wives. His father argued, his mother whined, but he was resolute.

Then, every evening in the moments before the alcohol blotted out all thought, he would think that his marriage in the wilds of Kentucky had been for exactly the same reason as his family was now urging upon him. For advancement of political goals. The British command needed Cherokee allies as a buffer. Talota accepted him to advance her own family. But this night the alcohol waited a bit longer to take his mind into the blankness and he argued with himself.

"No, John. Talota took you to** protect** her people. It was a totally unselfish act. Not at all what you are expected to do." This thought brought the inebriated man upright in his chair. His heart spoke the words that had taken years to form and he whispered them into the firelit room. "Talota, I want to come home to you. Home to your lodge, home to our son. Expectations here are a heavy burden. What would it be like to be free of them? Free forever? Free as we were all those years ago?"

But would she still be there? Twice she allowed herself to be married as a guarantee for her people's security. Had she done so again? Even now as he sat before the English fire was she lying in someone else's arms, feeling someone else's lips traveling down her slender arms to her small round breasts? Did she call someone else's name as the passion thrust her along?

Unexpectedly tears began to form in John Murray's blue eyes. The snifter fell from his hand as he covered his face. "Talota, wait for me. Wait, my lovely Singing Wind. I will come to you. I will bring you the love that I have denied for so long." The alcohol coursed through his strong body and he fell back in the high-backed chair and slept.

Joseph found him there an hour later and called the valet to put John to bed. Together the two men supported John's stumbling steps as he climbed the stairs. They pulled his fine clothing from his tall body and allowed him to fall limply into the soft feather bed. The down comforter was pulled over him and the two servants nodded to one another as another night's duty was completed.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

The heavy raindrops fell onto John Murray's uncovered head as he stood beside the grave. Now his mother was gone to join his father. The 'gift of Venus' that had stricken his father finally claimed his mother too. The unceasing demands were over. No more would there be hours of threats and bribes. No more tears, no more pleading. The lordship was his and he was the one to decide his own fate. He stood alone, his mind endlessly replaying the same scene from his childhood.

His mother sat in the flower garden at their summer home. The day was perfect, warm and sunny. She was embroidering delicate pink flowers on a ball gown for his sister. The seamstress had not created as complicated a design as Lillian demanded and Lady Dunsmore had taken it upon herself to finish the dress. It was to be Lili's engagement ball and the dress must be perfect.

The little nut-brown curls danced on Lady Dunsmore's forehead as the summer breeze caressed her pretty face. She glanced up to see her son smiling at her, his ruddy face as tender as she had ever seen it. She was puzzled and blushed slightly in confusion. John walked to her side and softy kissed her cheek.

"Mother, Janie can finish Lili's dress. Walk with me. Let's go to the pond and pick the summer flowers. Come with me, Mother." John extended his strong warm hand. Uncertain, his mother placed her thin hand in his and they spent the next hour arm in arm, walking slowly through the summer grass. In her hand she carried a bouquet of daisies and asters, picked smilingly by her son.

The ball was a success. His father entered the ballroom beaming with Lillian on his arm. Behind them walked Lady Dunsmore, necessary but forgotten. John saw the look on her proud face. He never forgot it. From that year on Celia Murray retreated farther into the background until she hardly existed at all.

Her husband William continued to entertain a variety of mistresses with varying degrees of subtlety. Celia grew crippled and gaunt, nearly blind, her soft voice growing more impatient and whiny as the years passed. All her focus was on her elder son's inheritance. Now all that focus was gone. Silently John said a prayer that her soul would finally find rest. He bent and laid a bouquet of summer asters on her sodden grave.

When he stood his face reflected a new strength. He turned and entered his carriage, spending the ride back to his mansion in thought. He would request another assignment in Virginia. His superiors could not refuse his request. Within little more than a year he would be with Talota again, nestled behind her in her bed, watching her gracefully prepare his meals. Their son would be ten, approaching eleven, nearly old enough to begin training for a Cherokee warrior.

That thought prompted Lord Dunsmore to frown. What about the wild Indian boy? How did he fit into this picture of domestic bliss? The memory held in John's mind was of a quiet, quick-minded, loving little boy. Would he still love his father? Could he?

Memories of winter evenings surfaced in Lord Dunsmore's tired mind as the carriage wheels clattered over the cobblestones. Little Mingo sat close beside him as he read aloud from Le Morte de Arthur or one of Shakespeare's plays. Talota smiled from the other side of the little fire. The child quietly placed his warm slender hand on John's arm and leaned against his father's side. The night dissolved into firelight and the three happy people sat silently, content in each other's company.

John thrust the troubling memories from his mind and concentrated on getting himself to Kentucky. Upon arriving at his family's large stone house he entered the booming hall and shut himself in the library to begin writing the necessary letters. When his writing was finished he poured himself a snifter of brandy and let his thoughts wander to distant Kentucky, where Talota and Mingo waited to welcome the third person of their tightly woven company.

The hours passed and his inebriated mind formed a plan. England would not recognize his marriage in a Cherokee ceremony as valid. He would therefore bring Talota to the island as his mistress. In her simple mind she would still be his wife. The boy could be educated as far as his abilities allowed. As the years sped by he, John, would seek an English woman that he could accept as a wife. The son produced in that marriage would inherit the title, the fortune and the privileges that came with it. He could be prepared from birth to assume the duties required of such privilege.

The Cherokee boy, unfit for titled English society, could be his brother's trusted confidant. Thus every dream John Murray dreamed would be fulfilled. He smiled to himself in complete satisfaction as he rose to consume the meal spread before him on his shining walnut table. Not once did he consider the feelings of his Cherokee family or allow himself to think that his carefully arranged fantasy would never come to pass.

Within a month his orders were cut and he was on his way to Bristol. He boarded a ship a week later and the sea voyage to America began. The passage was quick and easy with a minimum of discomfort. John amused himself nearly every night with the second wife of an elderly diplomat dispatched to Philadelphia.

Cora Linford was a tall curvy woman bored to tears by her serious, careful husband. John Murray entertained her with his irreverent wit and his stories of interesting places. Every night he taught her new pathways to physical pleasure. She was an eager pupil and learned very quickly how to satisfy John's persistent lusts. They spent hours together, the rocking of the ship providing a much-appreciated enhancement to the sexual act. She matched him experiment for experiment and the voyage ended far too soon for John's liking.

He stood at the rail and saw her demurely accompany her staid husband down the gangplank. At the carriage door she turned and gave her lover one last, lingering promise from her tear-filled blue eyes. Then her husband handed her into the coach, climbed in beside her and they disappeared from John's life.

He turned to supervise the unloading of his trunks and sought the nearest inn for a night of debauchery before beginning his bleak journey to Charleston. There he confirmed his orders to complete a survey to realign the harbor. An urgent need existed to increase safety for the many ships loading and unloading at the bustling Carolina port city.

The winter passed in the balmy seaport. John never spent the night alone unless he wished, and he seldom wished solitude. He was an eclectic lover, partnering all colors and races. He entertained all classes, from the wife of the governor to the lowest chamber maid. Never once did he consider himself unfaithful to his beautiful Cherokee wife. She lived in a completely different world, in a portion of his heart totally closed to all others.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

"I'll wager you whatever you wish to risk, Baldwin. Murray never does anything without careful thought. He's angling for a governorship as surely as I am sitting before you."

"He's far too young, Evans, and you know that. He's probably running from one of his doxies who's waving a child from the wrong side of the blanket." Ethan Baldwin chuckled and sipped from his crystal glass.

"That could also be true, but that doesn't change the fact that Murray has years of experience in the wilds of Virginia as well as her capital. Now he's gathering experience in the Carolinas. He'll come back to England with an increased wealth of investments too or I'll be greatly disappointed in our English capacity for acquisition."

"He'll probably come back with a half-dozen bastards behind him!"

The two men laughed softly at their peer's well-known reputation for promiscuous behavior. They replenished their glasses and resumed their musings.

"No matter, that. What lord, prince or pauper doesn't have a half-dozen brats scattered over the kingdom? What was it Edward said of the Scots so long ago? To paraphrase: 'If we can't get them out, we'll breed them out.' We've all done our best for king and country! The Murrays have enriched themselves by playing both sides of the border. And both sides of the blanket! A rather ambitious lot, though they are Scots."

Another well-bred laugh, and the two men sat in silence. Then Owen Evans pursed his lips thoughtfully. "You realize, Baldwin, that if you're right we two stand to benefit as well. It would behoove us to remain close to Murray. We could gain from his advancement. After all, we are his best friends."

"I was thinking exactly the same thing. The Carolinas are rich in naval stores, and Charleston is a center for the African slave trade as well. Murray will come back with a little darkie or two or I miss my guess. And maybe a pretty quadroon for his own bed! He'll probably invest more heavily in the trade too. Knowing him, he could even build a discreet house for several of his favorites as another investment."

"Murray never was too particular about who or what he bedded. Remember him telling us about that Indian woman a few years back, right after he returned from the colonies? He seemed quite infatuated with her, if you can credit anything he says while he's in his cups."

"Yes, I remember. That's as close to love as I've ever seen John Murray, and I've known him since we were lads together. It's too bad she's a heathen and unfit to be a true consort."

Owen Evans snapped his fingers as a new thought entered his mind. "Ethan, he's gone back to get her! John Murray is in the Carolinas so he can sneak over the mountains and bring his dark-eyed doxy to England. I'll wager you any amount that he comes home with an Indian in tow. "

Ethan Baldwin frowned. "Done. Murray is far too conscious of his position and connections to do any such thing. He'd bed her in the colonies, I have no doubt. But bring her to England? That's too bold even for John Murray! We've come a great distance from being fascinated by a John Rolfe and his Rebecca."

The two Englishmen spent the rest of the afternoon discussing any number of their peers, then finished the evening in the company of their favorite consorts. Late in the night they arrived at their respective homes as usual. They were, after all, privileged.

Meanwhile John Murray was presenting himself to his commanding officer. The silver-haired man pursed his lips as he handed the new orders to the tall copper-haired major.

"You've done an admirable job on the harbor. Here are your orders to return to England. Also, your request to travel inland is granted, Major Murray. You may leave day after tomorrow. Godspeed, young man."

John Murray saluted his commander, turned and strode out of headquarters. The surveying had gone well and the harbor was ready for the engineers to begin moving earth. Major Murray and his team would not be needed any longer. The officer's request to explore west of the mountains was seen as odd, but since there was no real reason to refuse the commander had given his permission.

John spent the rest of the day and the day following equipping himself and his mule for the trip inland. The spring sunshine was warm but he knew that there would still be pockets of snow in the mountains. By the time he reached Chota the summer should be fully blooming. There would still be time to pass back through the Gap and over to the coast before winter set in.

He had spent the short coastal winter carefully planning. He scouted around the bustling seaport for a small house where he could install Talota and her son until the Carolina winter passed. Passage to England could begin the next spring. In little more than a year John Murray could be securely back in his big grey house, his Cherokee family comfortably housed in the rooms near his own. His ruddy face colored with desire every time he thought of slipping down the hall to Talota's soft feather bed.

Her son would now be eleven. In the back of his mind John entertained the thought of leaving the boy in Kentucky. What did it really matter, he told himself? The child had probably forgotten him and quite likely would prefer being a wild Indian to a cultured English boy. He probably spoke English no longer and would resent having to leave his Kentucky home.

He could much more easily enjoy Talota if the boy was not with them. As always with John Murray, his own pleasures were all that he really considered. His Cherokee wife and son had little value of their own. Their only value was in their connection to him.

He slept little that night as he enjoyed a last romp with his favorite Carolina belle. Named after her birthplace, Carolina Schuyler was like a tiny, blue-eyed Dresden figure. Only fourteen, she was an experienced playmate before John Murray found her walking enticingly near the wharf where he was surveying. Her swelling belly was of no concern to him and he gave no credence to her tearful admonitions that the child was his. He personally knew of three other men who regularly enjoyed the little doll. So with no guilt at all he left her crying in her bed as he strode westward out of the beautiful harbor city.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Menewa left John Murray standing stunned before the burial scaffold. Talota's body lay silhouetted against the blue Kentucky sky. "Too late, too late, too late." The words chased each other through his mind like the cry of a killdeer startled from its nest. All his careful plans, the years of memories, the time still to come, shattered. His ruddy face was drained of all color, his mouth fallen open in shock.

Gradually he became aware of the tall boy leaning against him, shuddering with sobs. The child's arms held tightly to his body, his face pressed into the man's blue shirt. Damp warmth was spreading where the boy's helpless tears fell onto the cotton cloth. Slowly John Murray raised his arms to enclose the child's trembling body. Talota's son, Caramingo. His son, Edmund Kerr Murray.

The blood of the Murrays flowed through the boy's veins. No matter how hard the truth, John Murray had to face the facts. For the first time in his life the English Lord faced a situation with full knowledge. With a flash of understanding as bright as Kentucky lightning he knew that the boy was now his responsibility. He owed Talota his best effort. There was no choice to be made. The child would come with him to England.

Talota's brother Menewa made the boy ready to accompany his father. Menewa's troubled heart saw no love in the tall white man's eyes, only the determination to do his duty. Every fiber of the Cherokee's being yearned for the boy who was so dear to his heart. According to Cherokee custom Talota's sisters would take the child. But she had no sisters.

The boy's Cherokee blood was mixed with the blood of the Englishman, and that man was now taking him across the sea. With clenched jaw and pounding heart the Cherokee chief watched the heartbroken child stumble after the tall white man. Impatiently John Murray glanced behind him at the stricken boy. Then he faced eastward toward the sea, where the only life remaining to him waited in grey English stone.

They made their first camp only a few miles from Chota. John beckoned the boy and spoke slowly. "Wood. Get wood." He pantomimed making a fire. The boy's large dark eyes, rimmed in red, watched his father carefully. Then he answered the man in perfect English.

"You want me to get wood for a fire?"

Though surprised John nodded and turned to unpack the mule. Mingo returned in only a few minutes with a large armful of wood. He gave his father a hesitant smile but the tall Englishman did not respond. Silently the boy knelt and constructed a fire drill. His father watched wordlessly. Then he hefted his rifle and stepped into the surrounding woods. When he returned a short hour later he found his son sitting before the fire, trembling. Though he noticed the child's distress John spoke no word of comfort and made no effort to touch the boy.

The summer darkness enclosed the two together before the little fire. Still in silence John spitted the small turkey and made a pot of coffee. He carefully avoided looking at the boy sitting before the fire, withdrawn into a smothering cocoon of grief. The boy hugged his chest and rocked slowly in distress. His lips were pressed tightly together. Now and then a smothered sob escaped and the boy's body shuddered.

"I lost my own mother last year. I know it's hard." John's voice was too loud and forceful. The words were meant as a comfort and connection, but the lack of emotion twisted them into something cold and shallow. The words echoed from the Kentucky forest. Mingo shivered before the little fire and closed his swollen eyes.

Bending to the roasting turkey, John searched his mind for some way to help the boy. "You have to accept this Mingo. No number of tears can change the fact that your mother is dead. I miss her too."

Mingo's head snapped up and his eyes looked boldly into his father's. "If you missed her, why did you stay away so long? If you loved us, how could you leave us at all?"

The blunt and honest questions stung the tall Englishman. His exalted position made him unfamiliar with such honesty. His first response was anger and he stood to face Talota's bold son. "You're an insolent and disrespectful whelp! I will not tolerate such questioning from a child. No English child would so challenge his father. Your permissive Cherokee mother has done you a disservice which I will strive to rectify immediately. Stand up!"

His eyes hooded but his head unbowed, Mingo stood. John strode to stand before the boy, towering powerfully over the child. "Apologize to me." Seconds passed and in the silence the sounds of the Kentucky forest filled their ears. In the deep recesses an owl hooted. Unthinkingly Mingo mimicked the sound and the forest creature responded.

John Murray stood aghast at the exchange. The tall boy before him bore little resemblance to the loving child of his memory. This boy was a stranger, a wild savage from the fringes of the forest. A chill of abhorrence ran up the Englishman's long spine. The bright firelight beamed on the dark eyes and gleaming black hair before him. Long arms bare, his chest encased in leather, the boy was as wild as a beast of the forest.

Without thought John reached out and pulled the child close, slipping the knife from his belt in one fluid motion. He threw the boy to the earth and straddled his body, grabbing the long black hair in his left hand. With his right he quickly cut through the shiny locks. A shock of raven hair came free in his hand. Again and again his knife cut through the thick tresses. The boy struggled to throw off his father's heavy body until he was forced to lay exhausted on the damp summer earth.

Panting with his own exertion and anger, John came to his senses still straddling the boy. He could feel the child's body shuddering with violent emotions. The child's long slender fingers were digging into the moist soil and John could hear his teeth grinding in rage.

His own mind began to think coldly and rationally. He reached behind his knee and removed the boy's knife, throwing it several feet into the surrounding forest. Then he stood, balancing himself with his feet on each side of the boy's slender body.

Unexpectedly the boy rolled and knocked his father's right foot out from under his heavy body. Though trying to remain upright, John twisted and fell hard on his knee. Mingo jumped agilely to his feet and leaped into the forest after his knife. Behind him his father launched his heavy body and knocked the boy sprawling. Mingo's head hit the trunk of a large elm. He fell limply and lay motionless on the forest floor.

Raising himself on his elbows John saw the boy lying prone and unmoving. His heart in his throat, the tall Englishman crawled to the child's side. With a trembling hand he felt for the pulse. It was there, quivering in the boy's smooth brown throat. A soft sigh escaped from the man's dry lips.

"Talota, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." John Murray sat beside his unconscious son for several minutes, trying to make himself lift the boy. When he finally raised his son, the intensity of the emotion startled him and he nearly dropped the child. He slowly lifted Mingo in his arms and carried him the short distance back to the little fire. There he examined the swelling on the boy's forehead. It was large and would be a nasty bruise.

"What have I done? Son, forgive me." Whispered words drifted into the still Kentucky night. The sliced and ragged hair made the boy look unkempt and unloved. Locks of long black hair were scattered all around the camp. Contritely the man reached for one of the locks and wound it around his forefinger. It was so like Talota's hair.

Unbidden came the memory of Talota lying beside him on her narrow bed, her long raven hair spread around her lovely shoulders. What imp had made him cut Mingo's hair in so brutal a fashion? Waves of shame flowed from the man's heart and flashed across his ruddy face.

The boy stirred on the ground and opened his eyes. His hand lifted to feel of the bruise, and then dropped beside his cheek to feel of his shorn hair. John watched the expression of horror wash over the boy's face. The child turned from the fire and curled into a tight ball, both hands covering his disfigured head. Beside him his father reached out a white hand to smooth the ragged hair. But the hand never touched the boy.

In all his life John Murray had never had a demonstrative heart. Always he felt that the obsequiousness directed toward him was deserved. Only once had he reached out to another person, man, woman or child. He simply did not know how.

Uncertain and ashamed, John Murray allowed his hand to drop back to his side. Sighing deeply he reached toward the roasted turkey and sliced a large piece from the breast. He held it out in front of his son's hidden face. The boy made no move to take the meat, and after several seconds the man withdrew the offering.

The fire burned low and the owls hooted in the forest. The summer moon rose high and still the man sat beside the curled child, the silence between them the first block in the wall that would eventually curtail all hope of love for either of them.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Mingo stood stiffly in his new restrictive clothing. His Cherokee vest, leggings, and soft leather boots were gone, destroyed. The tight cotton shirt inhibited the free movement of his arms, fabric shackles around his slim wrists. The trousers buttoned at his waist and knees made it impossible to leap and run comfortably.

The boy sighed as he realized that leaping and running were joys of the past, his Cherokee past. Most uncomfortable were the stiff, heavy brogans that encased his feet. They symbolized everything about his captivity. Painful, heavy, unwelcome. The trip overland had been miserable, the breach between father and son widening with each traveled mile.

Though humiliated by the loss of his hair the boy reached out to his father as the one familiar person remaining in his life. Thinking to please the man, Mingo sought the responsibility for the raw-boned red mule. He appreciated the animal's living presence.

In the moments when his father ranged far ahead Mingo talked to the mule, all his anguish pouring from his throat in the words of his mother's people. The mule would swivel his long ears as he listened to the soft syllables drifting through the hot summer air.

Every evening as his father hunted for game Mingo cared for the weary mule, the animal the boy's only connection to affection. John stayed away as long as possible, seeking escape from the admonishment he could see residing deeply in his son's large dark eyes.

The meals were eaten in complete silence as both the man and boy remembered other meals together in the company of Talota, long years ago. Neither could reconcile the person across the fire with the image in his mind. So as the season neared its end the gulf between the two was too wide to ever overcome.

The arrival in Philadelphia was uneventful. The day before they entered the bustling city John slipped into town and bought clothes for his son. He also bought a pair of shears to complete the barbering of his son's hair. Mingo made no effort to run, having accepted his father coming for him as inevitable. The deep vein of fatalism that had hidden in his boy's heart was forced to the surface by his father's presence. Mingo sat watching the flocking birds, their free flight a mockery of his shackled existence.

Now he stood before the large glass window in the well-appointed inn. He appeared no different from any other boy of his father's class, except for his large dark eyes, black hair and brown skin. Before him passed the life of the colony in all its variety. Travelers, teamsters, cotton merchants, English officers. In all those hundreds of people there was no one in whom the boy could confide. So he carefully bottled all the rage, all the hurt, all the puzzlement inside his aching heart.

He looked down at the speckled rock clutched in his hand. Within its dark core the rock carried all the boy's memories of his mother. It was living in a way his father could never understand. Mingo ran his fingers over the smooth surface and prayed to the Creator that he would one day take the rock home to its people. The fervent prayer left his eyes moist with tears which he could not blink away in time. His father came through the outer door and saw them.

"Mingo! There is nothing to be gained by tears. Stop it and come here. I want to talk to you."

The boy slowly advanced across the room to his father's rigid side, slipping the stone unnoticed into his pocket. The tall man did not bend to his son but rather placed his hands behind his back and began to pace. Mingo watched fascinated as the handsome white hands lovingly caressed each other.

"I have booked passage for us. We will leave tomorrow. The voyage will not be an easy one as the season is late, but we should arrive in Bristol before the winter. I have entered your name as Edmund Murray. That is how you shall be addressed from this moment on. You are Edmund Kerr Murray, the son of Lord Dunsmore. You will conduct yourself accordingly. If at any time your comportment is less than I desire, you will be punished until you decide to behave. Do you understand?"

Mingo's dark eyes bored into the blue eyes before him. His lips were tightly compressed in anger. John saw the anger and thought he understood the reason. He stepped toward his son and gripped the boy's shoulder painfully.

"You are my son, and you **will** do as you are told. You have a duty to the family and you will perform that duty. I will spend the entire time on the voyage teaching you what you need to know. Your days of useless indolence are over."

"Am I permitted a question?" The boy's voice dripped with disdain. His father colored brightly but nodded. "When I wear this new name will it blind others to the color of my skin and hair? Will the name of Murray suddenly erase my mother's blood?"

John Murray's blush deepened as rage flooded his face. The boy's question gave voice to all his own doubts and fears. He knew what the reaction of his peers would be to this child he'd fathered. Shame welled inside his heart.

All his family's careful positioning over the generations was threatened by the duty he felt to a dead Cherokee woman. The years of promiscuous romping, his selfish disregard for the family was bundled into this one arrogant boy. John raised his hand and slapped Mingo across the face, hard.

The dark eyes never left his face. A thin trickle of blood escaped the corner of the boy's mouth. He raised a slender hand and touched the red stream. Then he reached out his hand and smeared the blood onto his father's cheek. Involuntarily the tall man recoiled.

"I give you back your blood. This is all of you that is in me, this thin stream of blood. I am your prisoner now. But I will not always be. I will one day again be free." Mingo turned his back on his father as the rapid breathing of the tall man echoed in the silent room. The boy walked slowly to the window and looked out on the street scene before him.

"Talota, this is not how I dreamed for it to be. How have I managed to muddle it all up so badly?" In his mind John Murray talked to his silent Cherokee wife. But though he waited in the slowly darkening room, her voice gave no answer. The English father closed his eyes as the doubt and sorrow pulled at his heart. He suddenly spun and slammed the door behind him, leaving the boy alone before the window.

It was fully mid-day before he returned, the night of careless debauchery plain on his whiskered face, the odor of stale liquor surrounding him like a mist. The boy's nose wrinkled in disgust. His empty stomach growled in hunger as his father grabbed his arm and pulled.

John shoved the boy out the door, paid a laborer to load the trunks, and pulled Mingo behind him into the carriage. They arrived at the departure wharf in only minutes and disembarked. Their trunks were loaded into their small stateroom as the boy stood on the dock, trembling. He realized his time on the American continent was near its end.

Grabbing the boy's arm again, John pulled his son up the gangplank and into the small stateroom. He shoved the boy onto one of the narrow beds, then turned and left the room. Mingo heard the sound of the key in the lock. Hungry, frightened and alone he sat huddled on the bunk. Misery beamed from his large brown eyes. There was no one to see, no one to hear the gasping sobs that tore from his throat.

"E-du-tsi……E-du-tsi." The Cherokee word for uncle escaped his heart and floated softly past his lips into the small stateroom. But Menewa was far away over the mountains and could not hear. Alone and abandoned, Mingo curled into a tight ball and rocked himself to sleep.

Awakening from a light doze he realized the room was bucking. His empty stomach lurched with the ship's motion. Nausea gripped his body and he held his arms tightly across his middle to help the pain. The slow minutes passed and the rocking became more intense. Swallowing rapidly the boy fought a losing fight with his stomach.

Suddenly he could contain the bile no longer and he vomited a thin stream of bitter liquid onto the floor. Then, moaning softly, he lay back on the heaving bunk, bracing his slender body with his strong legs. But the nausea only worsened and he spent the next hour heaving dryly.

John found him leaning over the bunk, gagging. The mess on the floor oozed back and forth with the ship's motion. The stink was overpowering. Bellowing in rage, the English lord called for a crewman to clean up the vomit. Soon the cabin was clean but the sour odor remained.

"I will not stay in a cabin that stinks this badly. You will remain alone until you stop this vomiting. The faster you stop, the quicker you will have company. It is your choice." Slamming the door behind him John Murray climbed onto the deck and spent the next hour in the fresh, cold sea air. The choppy seas caused his own stomach to roil, but he gave no thought to his wretched son below decks as he himself leaned over the railing to empty his dinner into the sea.

It was three days before Mingo could lift his head to take any nourishment. When he did, his rebellious stomach refused the warm soup and threw it back up. Another day passed before a strong hand pulled the thin boy upright. He opened his eyes to look into the bearded face of the captain.

"Get up, boy. I'll help you. You get out into the air and I think you'll be alright. Steady now, one step at a time." Mingo was puzzled at the look in the older man's eyes. Blue as the sea, stormy with anger, the eyes beckoned him. Instinctively the boy knew that the strong man was not angry with him. He sighed deeply and leaned against the warm, strong body of the ship's captain. His trembling legs would not support his thin frame and the captain nearly dragged him up the ladder and onto the deck.

The sea had calmed and the bright sun sparkled on the gentle waves. A steady breeze billowed the sails and Mingo blinked in the bright sunlight. The clean sea wind cleansed his nose of the foul odor of vomit. The captain continued to support his halting footsteps up the short ladder to the wheel. There the strong man sat the quivering boy in his own sea chair and draped a heavy blanket around his thin shoulders. He spoke a few words to the sailor at the wheel, then stepped quickly down the ladder. The sailor turned and smiled at the forlorn boy huddled turtle-like in the brown blanket.

The captain returned in only a few moments with a small mug of thick warm potato soup. "Eat this slowly, son. Take one small bite at a time, let it settle, then take another. Eat only as much as you want, one bite or twenty, it's no matter." The captain squeezed Mingo's thin shoulder and left him alone with the young sailor at the wheel. The sea breeze was cool but very welcome after the stale and stifling air in his closed cabin.

After he'd eaten a few bites Mingo looked around the deck for his father. The tall red-haired Englishman was nowhere to be found. A few other passengers walked slowly around the deck, one or two glancing at him still huddled in the blanket. One young man leaned over and whispered to the young woman at his side, then pointed at Mingo. The young woman giggled and stared. Mingo colored in embarrassment though he wasn't sure why.

An hour later the captain came for him and helped him back to his bunk. The small porthole had been opened and the cabin cleaned. The man closed the porthole and pulled the blanket tightly around the thin boy's shoulders. Though heavy with sleep, the boy's eyes held an expression of intense gratitude. The captain smiled and patted the thin shoulder.

"Any time you want to come on deck you let me know. I'll see to it you get time topside. Hear me? Any time, son."

Mingo nodded and closed his heavy eyes. The gentle rocking of the ship awoke memories long hidden and he fell asleep being rocked in his mother's warm and loving arms. The boy known as Mingo would waken into the world of Edmund Murray.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

"I don't care what you want, Captain Mar. That boy is mine to deal with and he has not the proper manners to be seated at table with the other passengers. He's a wild Indian from the colonies, an orphan. I knew his mother. I'm teaching him but he's a slow learner. I won't let him starve, you have my word." Lord Dunsmore stared haughtily at the sea captain before him. The captain's blue eyes held a distinct challenge, as though he did not entirely believe the tale being told.

"As you wish, Lord Dunsmore. But I must tell you that I found the boy very tractable and compliant."

"Of course you did. He was weak from seasickness. He's not as compliant now, I assure you."

The captain nodded his head though the blue eyes did not lose their expression of doubt. Captain Mar turned and left John Murray standing alone in the bow of the ship as she sliced her way through the cold autumn sea. Frowning, John strode down the deck to the ladder and disappeared into the mess. There he seated himself beside the most charming wife of a Bristol merchant.

She smiled in welcome and John intimately squeezed her plump thigh underneath the table. They had already entertained each other for many nights as her husband played backgammon and drank brandy with his fellow merchants in the captain's quarters.

Captain Mar walked to the door of Edmund's isolated little cabin. He knocked and the boy opened the door. The child's dark eyes beamed with welcome. "Thank you for loaning me your copy of Midsummer Night's Dream Captain Mar. I'm sorry but I'm not finished with it yet."

The captain smiled. "That's not why I've come, lad. Come on deck with me now. Your father is at table and won't see what I have in mind. Come." The captain's leathery hand beckoned and Edmund silently followed. He understood immediately that whatever the captain wanted to do must be kept a secret.

Once on deck the captain stepped back and allowed the boy to walk wherever he wanted. Smiling hesitatingly, Edmund walked quickly to the bow of the ship. The sea breeze was fresh and exhilarating.

Silently the boy removed his heavy shoes and stockings, then pulled his shirt free of his buttoned trousers. The wild wind reached its fingers down the boy's collar and over the slender bare feet. Closing his eyes Edmund leaned back and spread his arms to the sea.

Behind him the compassionate captain guarded the boy's moments of freedom. Ten minutes later he stepped to the boy's side. "You'd best straighten you clothes now, son. It's time to be the proper English boy again."

Edmund nodded and quickly tucked in his shirt and slipped the brogans onto his feet. With the captain beside him he walked down the ladder and back to his solitary stateroom. Captain Mar nodded and soon returned with a platter of bread, cheese and fruit. "Eat quick now and I'll come back for the platter soon."

Smiling in gratitude Edmund took the platter and sat on the bunk to eat. He devoured the cheese and fruit, eating sparingly of the bread. He drank a half-cup of the beer, then lay down to read until the light faded from the small round porthole. The captain returned only minutes later, smiled at the bookish boy and retrieved the platter. Edmund smiled and waved.

Late in the night he awoke as his father staggered into the small stateroom, smelling of liquor and stale perfume. The tall heavy body supported itself against the stateroom wall beside Edmund's bed until the English lord could ease onto his own bunk.

His son lay only a few feet away, trying not to hate the impatient and debauched man who was his father. In John Murray's inebriated mind a partial verse from "Greensleeves" repeated itself over and over in his mind.

"Oh why did you so enrapture me?

Though I may be in a world apart

My heart remains in captivity."

The unkempt man mumbled the verse until he fell into a sodden sleep. His son remained awake for hours afterwards, thinking of his father and the unapproachable man who now murmured in a drunken stupor upon the bunk only an arm's length away.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

The Christmas music awed Edmund and sent shivers of delight up his long slender arms. The deep notes of the pipe organ set the floor to vibrating and caused the vaulted edifice above him to echo. He could feel the music coursing through his body. The sensation was exhilarating.

Carefully he copied everything Lord Dunsmore did, from reading the responses to rising at all the appropriate times. The entire procedure seemed silly to him. Surely this god of Englishmen did not demand such complicated worship.

His mind rambled back to his home in the Kentucky woodlands. The Creator desired only heartfelt praise and devotion. A Cherokee honored the Creator by performing all ceremonies and walking in the full circle. Then one's life would be blessed. He was thinking of the winter celebrations when he noticed that everyone around him was standing. Quickly he jumped to his feet just as his father's hand came down heavily on his shoulder and squeezed painfully.

The shock caused the boy to look up into the painted face of the nearest statue. The painted blue eyes held the boy's own, the painted lips seemed to be lifted in a taunt. A flush of hatred coursed through the boy's tall body. Then he was being pushed out of the pew and into the long aisle of the church. Wordlessly the congregation filed out of the large stone building and onto the wintry sidewalk.

Several men and women nodded to his father. The man in a long white gown spoke to him for several minutes. All around him Edmund could hear the murmured comments of the congregants as they stared at him.

"Murray's bastard," was the term most often whispered. The patrician lips sneered as the words passed through. Edmund did not understand the term but he knew that it was derogatory. His hands balled into fists as the nearly uncontrollable desire to hit them flooded his heart.

His father's heavy hand once again gripped Edmund's shoulder. They walked the few steps to their coach and stepped inside. Just as the coach pulled from the curb another gentleman gestured for it to stop. John Murray leaned out the window as Ethan Baldwin gripped the door handle.

"I say, Murray, glad to see you've returned from that hellish trip to the colonies." The man's light blue eyes flashed to Edmund sitting withdrawn against the dark velvet interior. In the shadows the boy was nearly invisible. "And what's this? A boy?"

John Murray cleared his throat and gestured at his son. "Yes, an orphan. I knew his mother. I have decided to raise him and educate him as far as his intellect allows. He's a Cherokee from Kentucky."

Ethan Baldwin's eyes never left Edmund's brown face. Suddenly he turned to John and nodded his head. "Yes, a very Christian thing to do. Couldn't leave him alone in that God-forsaken wilderness, what? I'd like to call on you day after tomorrow, just to renew our acquaintance. Will you be at home?"

John nodded. "Would two in the afternoon be amenable? I will be certain to have your favorite port. Until then, Baldwin. Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas, Murray. I commend you for doing all you can to save the boy's heathen soul. Well done." Ethan Baldwin stepped back from the curb and watched the carriage pull away. Behind him Owen Evans placed his warm hand on Ethan's shoulder.

"Well Baldwin, I'd say you owe me. I said he'd come back with an Indian in tow, and he did."

" 'An orphan. I knew his mother.' No doubt he 'knew' the boy's mother! What fools he must think we are. So, Murray's dark paramour is dead. If he intends to pass that bastard off as the next Lord Dunsmore he's got a battle on his hands! I for one do not intend to accept such a mixed blood heathen as peer to my Huntley."

"Nor I to my Kingsley or Royce. Murray was always bold. But now he's gone too far. Too far!"

"Just the thought of that heathen's hand touching my Daisy or Rose makes my blood boil! It will be a cold day in hell before that bastard comes near any one of **my** children."

Owen Evans nodded in agreement and watched the carriage turn the corner and disappear. Together the two distressed men walked back to their own carriages and accompanied their families home to a hearty English Christmas dinner.

Just after the new year began Edmund's English tutor knocked on the library door as the winter sun deserted the west windows. John opened the sliding door, a snifter of brandy in his hand. His hard blue eyes gleamed in the gathering darkness. He frowned at the thin tutor.

"Yes, Master Simmons? What is it? Has the boy behaved badly again? In what way?"

"No sir, rather the opposite. He's too tractable. Please forgive me sir, but I think the boy is ill."

"Ill? Ill? How is he ill?"

"I believe that he has a fever, sir. He's quite flushed and is very listless."

"Damn! Is there no end to the trouble that boy causes me?" John stepped out into the hall and shouted for the upstairs maid.

"Emma! EMMA!"

The young woman scurried to the head of the stairs and ran down as fast as possible.

"Yes sir, Master Murray?"

"Is that Indian boy ill?"

"Not that I know of, sir."

"Well, go and see. This tutor says he is. Check on him and let me know immediately."

Emma curtsied and climbed rapidly up the staircase. She disappeared into Edmund's room. A minute later she was back by her employer's side.

"He is hot to the touch, sir. He says his throat hurts."

Into his mind flashed the memory of last evening's meal. The boy had eaten nothing and drank very little. He thought Edmund was just being stubborn. The tall man stood in the hall, undecided. Emma and Robert Simmons stood before him, waiting for his decision. His face flushed in anger, John shouted for the downstairs butler.

When the tall sedate man arrived John pushed him to the door and sent him for the family physician. Then turning to Emma he told the young woman to make the boy go to bed and prepare the room for the doctor's visit. Emma curtsied and climbed back up the stairs to do John's bidding.

Robert Simmons stood before the library, waiting. When John turned to the thin tutor the timid man cleared his throat and spoke. "Lord Dunsmore, I think the boy has been ill for days. I should have told you before. But I feared that if I was wrong you would dismiss me. I see now that I should have acted on the boy's behalf, come what may."

"I am offering my resignation to you, sir. I cannot continue to tutor a boy that I believe is brilliant when my employer believes he is dull, no matter the salary. Good day, sir." The thin tutor walked to the door and slipped through into the darkness.

John Murray stood in the quiet hall, thinking. If Edmund was truly ill, what if he should die? Many children died of illness. The thought brought a sudden and unexpected chill to the tall man. He must not let Talota's son die.

Without conscious thought he climbed the stairs and stood in the open door to Edmund's room. The boy lay under the blankets, his eyes closed. Even from the door John could see that the boy was fevered. A red rash covered his brown cheeks and extended down his throat to his shoulders. His slender hands plucked aimlessly at the top blanket. His dark head rolled on the soft feather pillow.

Emma sat beside the bed gazing out the window into the garden. John walked silently to the other side and looked down at his son. He slowly reached out his hand and touched the black hair. He could feel the boy's hot brow. The child turned in response to the touch and John stepped back from the bed. Even in the dim light he could see the thin trickle of saliva that ran from the boy's cracked lips.

He had never been this close to anyone who was ill. He himself had a hearty constitution and had seldom been ill even as a child. His nose wrinkled at the musty odor of disease. Turning from his son's bedside he exited the room just as the doctor came into the big stone house.

Minutes later the physician pronounced his sentence. The boy had scarlet fever, a dreaded and often fatal disease common in childhood. His throat was so swollen that he could not swallow all the saliva his mouth produced. Edmund's fever was rising alarmingly fast, and the doctor pulled John into the hall.

"I won't tell you fabrications, John. That boy is very ill, though the case is not unduly severe. Why did you wait so long to send for me? Why didn't you send for me when the fever first began?" The doctor looked into John's stunned blue eyes and shook his head.

"Never mind. That's the Indian boy that you brought from the colonies isn't it? I thought so. I've heard that Indian children nearly always die from this fever. Measles and the pox too. They just don't have any strength. They're weak. But I'll do what I can. I'm sending for my most trusted nurse. Of course I'm assuming that you want me to try everything in my power to save him. You do, don't you?

"You do want me to try and save him?" What kind of question was that? John's mind whirled in confusion. How much easier his life would be if Edmund died! But unbidden came Talota's dark eyes, her soft voice. Unwelcome came the memories of the lodge in winter, Mingo's little hand on his father's arm, his little head resting on his father's chest. From deep memory came the sound of the small child's voice reading as his father's finger pointed to the words. The joyous greeting piping from the boy's throat as the weary surveyor returned from weeks in the wild. **Try** to save him?

John shook his head to clear it, then looked the doctor full in the eyes. "Do everything that you can to save him, doctor. Spare no expense. Just let me know what you need. Do everything!" The doctor raised his eyebrows at the unusual vehemence. He'd known John Murray all his life and had never seen the man display any emotion other than impatient selfishness.

"I'll make the arrangements then. Emma's sponging him now. The nurse should be here within the hour. She's very good. Between us we'll do everything that can be done. I promise. Even though he is a little heathen." The doctor turned to go. Then he turned back to face the tall man still standing motionless in the hall. "Oh, and I also suggest that you alert your minister. Prayer may be all that we can do in the end."

Wordlessly John nodded and stumbled down the stairs to the library. He closed the doors and poured a large amount of brandy into a crystal glass. Quickly he downed the liquor and poured more. The doctor's last words repeated in his troubled mind. Was the doctor offering no hope? Edmund also had white blood, his blood. Perhaps that would make the difference.

But did the boy want to live? Was that what the doctor was suggesting with his last statement? In the end, perhaps Edmund wished to die. At that thought the brandy spilled from the glass as John's hand shook violently. For the first and only time in his life the tall Englishman looked into his own heart and cringed in horror. Had he made the boy's life so untenable that he'd seek death?

Though unfamiliar with disease himself, he'd overheard conversations between his mother and her friends. Often he'd seen them shake their heads and murmur "She didn't want to live, poor thing." He'd taken their meaning at face value. What if the same applied to Edmund? Could he live with the knowledge that he'd caused a child such pain as to make him wish for death? Talota's precious child. In his mind's eye he saw Talota in the firelight, rocking the tiny nursing baby, her eyes glowing with immeasurable love and joy. The tiny baby gurgled and mewed in her arms.

He heard the outer door open and pulled the library doors to reveal the nurse. She bustled quickly up the stairs behind Joseph. John stood undecided, then followed slowly behind them. From Edmund's open doorway he watched as the doctor and nurse stripped the boy of his nightshirt and laid him back upon thick towels. The nurse poured water into a basin and immediately bent to sponge the slender brown body with the cool water.

John noticed the thinness of his son's body. The brilliant red rash covered his son's chest and stomach. He realized that the tutor was correct. Edmund had been ill for days. He closed his eyes in unexpected sorrow at the knowledge. Remorse surged through his rapidly beating heart.

"U-ni-tsi?" The strangled word startled John as he stood in the doorway. "U-ni-tsi?" He saw the boy's slender hands reach out. Though he knew the doctor and nurse could not understand Edmund's words he stiffened his spine and clenched his jaw. Edmund's dark eyes opened and John could see the searching. The doctor turned and beckoned. Reluctantly he walked into the room to the bedside.

"Who is he calling? I can't understand. Can you?"

John shook his head. "I don't speak that heathen language, doctor. This boy is an orphan. I found him on my last surveying expedition."

The doctor looked long into John Murray's blank face. Finally he nodded. "Well, it's obvious that he's calling someone. Since he knows you and not us, I think it would be very beneficial if you'd at least respond to him. Speak to him, Murray. Go on."

John swallowed and followed the doctor's command. "Edmund? You are ill. The doctor and nurse are here to help you. Do what they say and you'll soon be well." He stepped back from the bed and walked to the door. Behind him the doctor and nurse exchanged a look of disbelief.

The total lack of warmth in John Murray's voice distressed them and they bent over the suffering boy with compassion. The doctor spooned water into Edmund's dry mouth as the nurse pressed a cool cloth to the boy's burning forehead.

The Cherokee words continued to escape the boy's swollen throat. "U-ni-tsi? A-li-s-de-lv-di a-ya!" Edmund's cry for his mother's help caused his father to clench his jaw so hard his muscles quivered in his cheek. Again and again the child called for his mother until John Murray could no longer contain himself. He strode to the boy's side and slapped his burning cheek. Edmund cried out and cringed into the pillow.

The nurse released a cry of alarm and soothed the boy's cheek with the cool cloth. The doctor leaned over and grabbed the tall man's hand. "What are you doing, man? Striking a sick child? What are you thinking?"

"I was……just trying to bring him to consciousness, doctor. That's all. I slapped my guide in Kentucky when he was fevered and he stopped babbling and got well." Lord Dunsmore's face was fiery with embarrassment. The doctor shook his head in warning.

"Don't do it again. You'll kill the boy! I never heard of such callousness."

Edmund continued to babble in broken Cherokee. The soft sounds echoed in the tall silent room. "U-di-tle-ga!" The boy threw off the blankets as his fevered body sought coolness. "A-ya ga-le-yv-sv!" The nurse pulled the blankets back over the thin body and kept bathing his fevered forehead.

"I wish I knew what he was saying. Nurse, do you have any idea?"

The elderly woman shook her head and once again pulled the thrown blanket around the shivering boy. John Murray paced in the hallway. Hours passed. The cries continued as Edmund called for his mother again and again. The tall man closed his eyes and drifted down the years to the same voice calling for Talota as they played a game of hide and seek together. Intense emotions tugged at the Englishman's heart. They warred with his cool and calculating mind.

"U-ni-tsi! U-yv-dla a-ma. A-da-do-da, a-li-s-de-lv-di a-ya!" The boy's wailing cry echoed in the quiet chamber. He thrashed under the heavy blankets. His father could stand no more. He strode into the bedroom, beckoning the doctor.

"Doctor Perkins! May I see you a moment please? It's important."

Though the doctor frowned he accompanied John into the dark hall. In the dimness the doctor could just make out the other man's features. It was evident that John Murray was struggling with something. He seemed to be hiding from the light.

"Doctor, the boy has white blood too. He's a half-breed. Won't that make it more likely he'll live?"

The doctor stared at the tall man opposite him. "How do you know this? You said he was an orphan. Did you know his parents? Is the mother white?"

John closed his eyes tightly and shook his head. The doctor had to lean closely to hear the whispered words. "I am his father."

The four words drifted to the tall ceiling and evaporated. The doctor's mouth fell open in surprise: not surprise in the revelation but surprise that John Murray would admit it. In the silent hall the two men could hear the boy's frantic calling for his mother.

"You know what he's saying. Don't you!"

"Yes."

"What?"

"He's calling for his mother. He says he's hot, like a fire. He's burning. He wants cold water."

"Damn it, Murray, you could have said that before now!"

The doctor rushed into the room. He grabbed the tall pitcher and poured a glass of water, holding it carefully against the boy's dry, flaking lips. Then he threw the blanket off of Edmund's fevered body. "Nurse, sponge him until the fever goes down. And talk to him! Say things a mother would say. Murray! Come here and tell her what to say."

With faltering steps the trembling Englishman approached his son's bedside. "The Cherokee word for mother is 'u-ni-tsi'."

The nurse bent over the suffering child and murmured softly. She took his hand and held it gently in her own. "U-ni-tsi, u-ni-tsi," she repeated over and over. Edmund stopped calling and relaxed into the soft feathers of his bed. He sighed audibly. The doctor strode to John and took his arm forcefully, dragging the tall man into the hall.

Once outside the room the doctor faced the father once again. "You had scarlet fever as a boy. I remember. This boy has a relatively minor case, rather like yours. Maybe you gave him the disease. Think about that in your more lucid moments, Lord Dunsmore. And show him what small morsel of compassion you can muster!" The doctor turned on his heel to reenter the room, then stopped and once again faced the Earl.

"Forget about praying. I'm sure your prayers would be so offensive to the Almighty that he may call the boy to heaven just to get him away from **you**!"

The doctor's words cut sharply and far more deeply than the old man would have believed. Staring sightlessly before him John stumbled down the long staircase and into his library. He quickly moved to close the doors, but Joseph stepped into the room with a question.

"Sir, how is the boy? Will he recover? We all want to know, sir."

John swallowed, then cleared his throat. "The doctor says there's a chance. The case is rather mild, though very serious because he's Indian." The butler turned but John grabbed his arm in detention. "Wait, Joseph. There's something else you need to know. You all need to know." John closed his eyes and swallowed. He opened his blue eyes and stared into the butler's curious face.

"He's my son, Joseph. He's my son." John turned his back on the silent butler and filled his glass to the brim. Then he sat before the library fire as the long hours of the night drifted slowly through the winter darkness. The brandy and the firelight captured John Murray and he followed them once more into the familiar pit of dashed dreams and broken promises. The winter dawn held no promises for the Earl of Dunsmore.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

The doctor and nurse stayed through the entire day. By the second night Edmund's fever broke and the doctor came wearily down the stairs. The nurse would stay the night and be replaced by a student nurse in the morning. In the shadowy library Dr. Perkins could just make out John Murray sitting motionless in a tall wing chair. The anger residing in the doctor's heart pushed him through the sliding doors to the Earl's side.

"John, I think the boy will live. Just for my own enlightenment, explain to me why you brought this child here. You obviously don't feel anything for him other than impatience. Are you planning on making him your servant?" The doctor frowned menacingly.

"For if you are, you will have me to answer to. I know you're Lord Dunsmore with the power of the crown behind you, but you are little more than a mouse in my eyes. A very small, inconsequential little brown mouse."

Slowly John raised his bleary eyes to the doctor. Fourteen hours of drunkenness had left him disheveled and trembling. Years of alcohol abuse showed in the unsteady hands and nodding head. The handsome face was slack and unshaven.

"I am that, doctor. Yes, I am a very small brown mouse. I thought I'd hidden that secret well. Now I see that everyone knew all along. Good night, doctor."

"One more thing Murray. You didn't have to confess that he was your son. We don't understand why or how, but it's the mother's blood that matters. Your blood did nothing to save him. Ironic, isn't it?"

Joseph appeared at the library doors. Shaking his head at the twists of fate, the doctor slipped through the sliding doors and was gone. Joseph came back into the library with a silver platter of bread and cheese. He silently placed it on the table beside his employer. Then he turned and pulled the library doors shut behind him.

John poured another glass of brandy and stared into the fire. Edmund would live. That thought chased through his mind over and over until he heard the mantle clock chime eleven. He realized that four hours had passed unnoticed. He carefully stood and straightened his clothes. Then he walked slowly through the sliding doors, stepped into the echoing hall and climbed up the stairs into Edmund's candlelit room.

Emma had straightened the bedclothes and removed the basin and used towels. The nurse slept deeply on a small bed in the next room. The odor of sickness remained under the smell of the camphor ice smeared on the boy's chest and throat. Edmund lay with his eyes closed, his swollen throat swathed in woolen cloth. A cup of thin chicken broth sat beside the bed, a spoon upright in the liquid.

That cup, untended, caused the tall man to catch his breath. It symbolized the neglect and isolation the boy had suffered since the death of his mother. For the first time his heart unselfishly filled with compassion for the wounded, stricken child. Tears stung John Murray's eyes as he stood looking at the mute testimony of the boy's suffering.

Slowly Edmund's dark eyes opened and saw his father standing in the doorway. As John watched he saw the bright eyes of little Mingo become the dull eyes of Edmund Murray.

The boy turned his head and closed his eyes. The gesture of dismissal was plain to the tall Englishman. Sighing, he turned and walked down the hall to his own lonely room. There he fell upon his large, soft bed and knew no more. The moon swung in its predestined arc and the night advanced toward the dawn.

"A-da-do-da! A-da-do-da!" The hoarse cry echoed down the dark hallway. Through his stupor John heard and understood. Memory collided with reality as he sprang from his bed and crashed into his own doorway. Recoiling, he stumbled down the dark hall and into the boy's room. The child was sitting in the bed, reaching. The old woman remained totally insensible, worn down by the hours of unrelenting nursing.

His mind blank but his heart pounding, John enfolded the boy in his arms. The child clutched his shirt with frantic fingers. "A-ya e-hi-s-dv, a-da-do-da." The soft Cherokee syllables penetrated his mind and the tall man pulled from the boy's grasp.

"Where, Mingo? Where does it hurt?"

The boy clutched his throat with both hands. John nodded, laid the boy upon the pillows and reached for the cup of soup beside the bed. Carefully he lifted the spoon of salty broth to the boy's dry lips. The boy swallowed painfully and nodded for more. Spoonful by spoonful the man fed his son. Then he brought the boy a glass of cool water and helped the child take several sips.

Gently he pulled the boy back down into the soft feather bed. Carefully the father tucked the blankets around the thin body. His large warm hand smoothed the short black hair from the boy's moist forehead. Pulling the chair close to the bed, John sat beside his son until the boy fell asleep.

Back in his own room he undressed and quickly sponged the stale liquor from his body. Then he slipped beneath the down comforter and fell into the deepest sleep he'd experienced since coming back to England with his son. He slept until the mid-day sunlight woke him.

Dressing quickly he strode down the hall to Edmund's room. The boy was sitting propped in bed with a book of Greek myths in his hands. But he was not reading. His dark eyes were fastened on the stark winter trees outside the window. A look of intense longing had pulled his face into planes and shadows. Slowly the boy became aware of his father in the doorway. He turned his head.

"Father." The voice was a thin whisper as it passed his still-swollen throat. The large dark eyes were dull with weariness. The events of the night were long forgotten, if ever they had been remembered. John saw the distance between them had returned and clamped down on the rising emotion.

"You look better. You should be able to return to your studies soon. I will engage another tutor for next week. Master Simmons resigned the night you became ill."

Edmund's eyes did not even flicker. There was no response at all. The boy could as well have been a wooden puppet. Puzzled, the tall Englishman stepped into the sunlit room and tried again. "I see that you're reading the myths. Those were always my favorite stories when I was a lad."

"I read them to mother from the books you left behind. She didn't want to forget all her English so she could understand you when you returned." Edmund's eyes began to gleam with an unspoken challenge. His slim hand clutched his painful throat and he swallowed.

John saw the challenge and his natural belligerence raced through his body and colored his cheeks. His hands clenched and he stepped closer to his defiant son. "You imply that I am somehow at fault because you and your mother remained in Kentucky when I came back to my home. It was her choice too, Edmund."

"No, father. No. You abandoned us for your English title."

"It is your title too, Edmund! That's why I came back…….for you."

"Is it? Are you really planning to hand over an English title to a heathen? I've heard you. I know what you think of me. And why." Edmund swallowed again and grimaced at the pain in his red, infected throat.

John Murray stood with his hands balled into fists, the desire to strike his son nearly overwhelming. All the tenderness he'd felt the night before, all the boy's yearning, had dissolved as mist in the brightness of the morning. Now they faced each other as strangers, or worse, enemies. In the space of a heartbeat John Murray felt his son slip away from him as surely as if he'd fallen into a bottomless chasm.

"You are Edmund Murray! Nothing will ever change that. I would if I could, believe me!" The bitter, damaging words were out before John could bite them back. The boy's eyes widened in shock, then darkened with uncontrollable pain. Edmund slipped under the down comforter and flung the book as far away across the room as he could. John spun on his heel, clattered down the stairs and slammed the outside door shut behind him.

Days passed, and Edmund slowly recovered from the scarlet fever. His thin body began to regain its vigor and his brilliant mind reached for knowledge as a thirsty plant reaches for moisture. He delighted in language and amazed his new tutors with his quick wit. They never praised him but Edmund soon grew to value learning anyway for the joy it brought him. His mind grew and flowered. But his father's hasty words had singed his heart beyond recovery.

Never again would the boy reach for his father's embrace. Never again would John Murray, Earl of Dunsmore, recover the loving closeness he'd felt so briefly. Even his marriage ten years later to Charlotte Stewart and the birth of his son George never totally obliterated the feelings of loss he felt for his firstborn. Gradually over the years the intensity of the memories faded, but the heartache remained. When stars fall, their brightness is lost forever.


End file.
